Somehow in all the commotion, Felix had slipped away, no doubt rushing to summarize his version of event before the Associated Press picked up on the story. Mom, Mrs. R., Marco, Nanny Goat, the lot of burly-looking bikers, and the “girls” in feathers were all corralled onto the main floor of the club where they were called one by one to give statements to a team of uniformed police officers that now outnumbered the drag queens two to one. The room looked like some sort of weird costume party gone bad-leather chaps mixed with sequined leotards mixed with Mrs. Rosenblatt’s neon pink and blue spotted muumuu. I had a feeling this was what a bad acid trip was like.
As for myself, I was parked on a vinyl barstool, wrapped in an ugly green blanket, wondering when my teeth would stop chattering. The paramedic who first arrived on the scene told me I did, in fact, have a mild concussion, but other than that I was physically okay. Mentally, however, was another story. It wasn’t every day a girl saw her best friend blow a hole the size of a softball through someone’s chest. And while I wasn’t mourning the loss of a scumbag like Unibrow any, the sight of gooey red stuff pooling around his head was permanently etched in my brain. Trust me, the real deal was a lot more disturbing than a CSI episode.
“Maddie!”
I turned to see Ramirez hailing me from the front doors. He flashed his badge to one of the uniformed LVMPD, then pushed through them, making a beeline toward me. I quickly swiped a finger under my eye to check for black smudges. With the way I’d been crying that night I was sure I had mascara streaks clear down to my chin. I swiped the other eye and fluffed my hair a little. Hey, I was shaken up, not dead.
“Maddie!” he said again, then grabbed me in a hug so fierce I thought he might crack a rib. He held me there for a long minute, not saying anything. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again,” he finally whispered into my ear. Only this time there was no Bad Cop in his voice. This time it was, dare I say, almost tender.
“Sorry,” I mumbled against his chest.
He released me and stood back to get a good look at me, doing a quick check of my person for broken bones with his hands. Though I admit as his palms skimmed over my thighs, I went warm in a totally inappropriate way, considering the circumstances. “Are you okay?” he asked, his fingers moving upward to gently probe the goose egg at the back of my head.
“I’m fine.” I paused. “Okay, maybe fine is a bit of a stretch. But I’m not dead.”
He blew out a big breath, running one hand through his black hair. He looked down at my outfit, taking in the platforms and drag-queen-chic bustier. “Jesus, Maddie, what were you thinking? You know, I almost had a heart attack when LVMPD called me.”
“You did?” I asked, my body doing that inappropriate thing again at the concern lacing his voice. “Really?”
“Yeah, I did.” He reached a hand up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheek. “I hate it when I miss all the action.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, tough guy.”
He grinned, though his hand lingered in my hair, making little goose bumps break out on the backs of my arms.
As my body continued to equate near-death experience with horny-teenager-worthy hormones, I cleared my throat and forced myself to ask after the one person conspicuously absent from the night’s activities. “So…what happened to Monaldo?”
Ramirez stopped doing the hands-in-hair thing and I could see him mentally switching back into cop mode. “He’s been taken into custody.”
I let out a long breath I’d been holding since I first stepped into Larry’s shoes.
“The Feds picked him up a few minutes ago outside his penthouse and he’s being processed as we speak,” Ramirez continued. “No formal interviews have been conducted yet, but the minute he heard he’d been under surveillance, he started squealing like a stuck pig, naming at least three Marsucci family members in the counterfeit shoe ring. He even said he’d cop to killing the customs agent and Bob Hostetler if we pleaded down to manslaughter and promised him protective custody. The Feds are so happy I think I saw one do a cartwheel.”
“What about Hank?” I asked.
Ramirez shrugged. “Monaldo still says he had nothing to do with Hank’s death, but I think he’s just holding out for a better deal. Honestly it doesn’t really matter. Any way you look at it, the Marsuccis are going down and Monaldo’s going to jail for a long, long time. Everybody wins.”
Except Unibrow, I thought, remembering the sickly red stain.
“So what now?” I asked.
He took my hand in both of his, his voice taking on that tender quality again. “Now you go home and get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot tonight; you need some rest.”
I felt the heat of his touch pulse through my palm. I licked my lips. “And you?”
He looked down at me, his eyes like two melted pools of Hershey’s Special Dark. But instead of promising to spend the night showing me a hundred and one new uses for those handcuffs of his, he glanced at the front door. “I’ve spent the last six weeks living this case, Maddie. I’d really like to be there when they question Monaldo.”
I felt my heart sink. Work. Again.
But considering I had a personal stake in seeing Monaldo disappear into maximum security for a very long time, I didn’t complain. Much.
“You’re leaving?” I whined.
He glanced from the door to me. “Look, if you need me to stay, I will,” he said. Which I took as a small victory. At least he was pretending he’d put me before work. That was a start.
“Go. I’m fine,” I lied.
“You sure?” he asked. Though he was already pulling away.
“Yes. Go. I’ll be okay, really.”
He placed a quick kiss on my forehead. “Get some sleep and I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. I promise.” Then he spun around and stalked back out of the club with purpose.
I watched his denim-clad butt walk away, my inappropriately charged body sighing in disappointment. Then I slapped both hands over my eyes. Hey, I had promised Saint Jude, hadn’t I?
The sun was rising over the horizon by the time Detective Sipowicz finally told us we could go home. But considering home was 100 miles away and the New York, New York was just a few blocks, Mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt, Marco, Dana, Rico and I caravanned back to the hotel instead. We were making our way across the casino floor, the ding, ding, ding of the slot machines making my goose egg throb like a trombone in my ear, when Slim Jim caught my eye.
“Hey!” he called. Then he pointed at Dana as he rounded the reservation desk and advanced on our merry little group. “Hey, where were you last night? I waited over an hour for you to show up. I completely missed Bette’s opening act. I can’t believe you stood me up!”
Mental forehead smack. With everything else that had been going on I’d totally forgotten that I’d pimped my best friend out to Mr. Walking Acne Commercial for the night.
Dana looked from me to Slim Jim, then to Rico, whose eyebrows were angling downward.
“What do you mean she stood you up?” Rico asked.
Slim Jim crossed his arms over his sunken chest. “I had a date to see Bette Midler with this chick and she totally blew me off.”
Rico’s eyes narrowed as he turned on Dana. “You had a date with this pencil neck?”